A Four-Letter Word
by odd-gelato
Summary: Darkwing Duck firmly believed that fear was just a four-letter word, and so was love – and a hero like him didn't need either.


_well, this is it! the very first darkwing fic i started writing, back in november. i finally managed to finish it. wow. *wipes away a single tear*  
_

* * *

Darkwing Duck leapt off the Ratcatcher with a dramatic swish of his cape, landing with his chest puffed out. "Another night in St. Canard made safe by the daring Darkwing Duck!" he announced to his empty lair.

There was no response, but he didn't expect there to be one. He took off his hat and tossed it at the hook on the wall, frowning when it missed and fell to the floor. One of these days, he'd get it.

He left the hat where it was and made his way to the central hub of his hideout, plopping into the chair in front of the biggest computer. Pushing aside some loose papers and empty takeout boxes to make room, he propped his feet up on the desk.

Tonight had been a pretty good one – he'd actually managed to stop a bank robbery! It was the biggest case he'd had in a while. Mostly, he just caught purse-snatchers and muggers, thieves struggling to abscond through a window with a bulky TV, and the occasional jewelry store burglary.

"I wonder what the papers will say," he mused. "'Magnificent Masked Mallard Miraculously-'? No. 'Feathered Fiends Foiled by Fantastic…' Hm." He yawned. "Ah well. I'm sure they'll come up with something good."

He supposed he should go to bed, but residual adrenaline still buzzed in his veins. Maybe he could clean up this workspace a little – there was a leftover piece of a sandwich that had been there so long he could swear it was gaining sentience.

Nah. He could always do that later.

Reaching over, he brushed some more loose papers off the police scanner and flicked it on. He leaned back again, folding his hands behind his head, and let the sound of radio chatter wash over him. Slowly, his eyes drifted shut.

Among blank walls and beeping monitors, Darkwing Duck was alone.

* * *

It was better that way, being alone. People held him back, dragged him down. (People were stressful and confusing, and it was easier to avoid them.) And so what if he talked aloud because there was too much space in his hideout and not enough to fill it with? He was Darkwing Duck! Darkwing Duck didn't need anyone and wasn't afraid of anything. He relied on himself, and nobody else – he didn't have sidekicks, he wasn't a team, and he didn't do lullabies.

Until, suddenly, he did.

* * *

His own safety always came first. He was fine taking risks and putting himself in harm's way to catch crooks – after all, crime fighting was inherently a dangerous job. And of course he had an obligation to protect the good citizens of St. Canard, but he just couldn't imagine doing something ridiculous like taking a bullet for someone else.

He had to look out for number one, right?

Yet here he was, in the clutches of a criminal mastermind atop the tallest building in the city, and the only person he was worried about was the little girl suspended high above him. His heart was still pounding hard enough to burst out of his chest after watching the condor drop Gosalyn, only to catch her at the last second. No close call with a criminal or in a car chase could hold a candle to the absolute, gut-wrenching horror he felt when he thought he hadn't confessed in time.

"The code," Bulba was saying. "No tricks!"

Darkwing looked up at the Ramrod. There was no end to the havoc someone like Bulba could wreak with something like this.

"Or she'll make quite an ugly stain on the street."

There was no contest. Gosalyn came first. She would come first every time, as long as there was still breath in his body.

And even when trapped next to the overloading Ramrod, squirming in Bulba's iron grip and certain he was about to die, his last thought before the world exploded around him was:

 _Well, at least Gosalyn's safe._

* * *

The next thing he became aware of was a heavy weight on his chest, and the fact that every inch of him was in pain. It was too dark for him to see anything, but he didn't need to be a first-rate detective to figure out he was probably under chunks of building. He tried to draw in a deep breath, and ended up choking on some powdered concrete as his ribs screamed in protest.

Then, above him, he heard the scrape of rubble being shifted and a familiar, frantic voice.

"Oh, D.W., please be here, please be here…"

He closed his eyes against the falling dust. When he reopened them, he could see Launchpad, framed by the dawn sky and clutching Darkwing's battered broad-brimmed hat.

Darkwing smiled weakly. "Took you long enough," he rasped.

Launchpad looked ready to cry. "Gosh, D.W.," he replied, voice thick. "For a moment there, I really thought you were a goner."

"Ha," Darkwing said, clinging to the tatters of his consciousness. "It'll take more than one measly malfunctioning machine to get rid of ol' Darkwing Duck. I eat bigger… blasts… for breakfast…"

Launchpad could see that Darkwing was starting to fade, so he hurriedly said, "I gotta take you to the hospital. What should I tell them?"

Right. If he went to the hospital as Darkwing Duck, his identity would be revealed. It had been so long since he'd opened up to anybody, but… this was Launchpad. He thought of how easily the word "sidekick" had rolled off his tongue, how natural it had felt. Even though they'd only met two days ago, he already knew he could trust the pilot with his life. Reaching up with the arm that wasn't pinned under a slab of concrete, he feebly tugged his mask down and answered, "Tell them… my name's Drake… Mallard…"

He passed out before he could see Launchpad's watery smile.

* * *

Launchpad was the first person Drake saw when he woke up. He was slouched in a slightly-too-small chair under the hospital room window, his chin resting on his chest as he gently snored.

"Launchpad," Drake tried, but his voice grated on his dry throat and it came out as barely a whisper. He worked some moisture back into his mouth and repeated with a little more success, "Launchpad!"

Launchpad jerked awake, looking around wildly. "What? Huh? Who?" Then his gaze landed on Drake, and relief crashed over his face. "D.W.! You're awake!"

"Unfortunately," Drake replied, becoming increasingly aware of his injuries. "Where's-" A coughing fit cut him off, sending spikes of pain through his body.

Leaping to his feet, Launchpad hurried over to the bedside table, where there was a pitcher of water. He poured a cup and handed it to Drake, who gratefully accepted. Drake chugged it down and then held it out for a refill. As soon as he finished the second one, he asked, "Where's Gosalyn?"

"The orphanage," Launchpad replied, taking the cup to fill it again. "I took her there after the Ramrod exploded. Then I went right back to look for you." He glanced off to the side as he set the cup down. "I haven't told her you're alive yet. Things were kind of touch-and-go for a while there, and I didn't want to get her hopes up in case you… y'know, didn't make it."

This took a moment to sink in. Then- "Wait," Drake said. " _A while_? How long have I been out?"

"A couple of days."

"A couple of-!" Drake squawked, jolting upright, and then immediately regretted the outburst as his body twanged. He flopped back on the bed with a wheeze. "How bad?" he asked once he could breathe again.

"Well, the doc said you had a pretty serious concussion," Launchpad said. "Broken arm, one broken rib and a few more cracked, internal bleeding…" He continued to list off a charming medley of fractures, breaks, and contusions, counting them on his hands until he ran out of fingers. At last, he finished, "All in all, you're lucky to be alive."

Drake put a hand over his eyes and groaned.

"So…" Launchpad said. "Should I let Gosalyn know you're okay?"

Drake's breath came up short, but not because of any physical pain this time. "No," he said after a pause. "I need some time."

"Time for what?" Launchpad asked, his brow furrowing.

"I dunno," Drake replied. "Just… time."

Launchpad looked doubtful, but it was at that moment a nurse came in to check on Drake, and whatever concerns he had went unvoiced.

They didn't go unvoiced for long, however. The next day, Launchpad asked again, "Are you sure you don't want me to tell her you're alive?" When Drake didn't respond right away, he continued, "It's just… you didn't see her face when the building exploded, D.W. She was _real_ torn up. Cried all the way to the orphanage."

Guilt stabbed at Drake. He knew that he should let Gosalyn know, but… there was an idea forming in his head, possibly the worst idea he'd ever had.

The girl needed a home, and any _ordinary_ prospective parents surely weren't equipped to handle her spitfire personality. Most would consider her a problem child, more spice than sugar and not many things nice. Adopters didn't want a spirited kid; they wanted a well-behaved tyke they could raise in peace. His idea was this:

Darkwing Duck wouldn't be any ordinary prospective parent.

But just thinking of it tied his guts into knots. A whole living, breathing being would be dependent on him, and he would be fully responsible for making sure she _stayed_ whole, living, and breathing.

He couldn't even keep houseplants alive.

Yet the thought of _not_ having her in his life made his whole body ache, deeper than bone deep.

Was that selfish of him? What if he wasn't built to be a dad, and he screwed up Gosalyn's childhood just so his hideout wouldn't be so empty anymore?

"I'm sure," he lied.

* * *

Drake ended up being confined to the hospital for a week. Launchpad visited every day, showing up promptly when visiting hours began and only leaving when the staff forced him to.

During this stint, Drake learned quite a bit about Launchpad. There wasn't a whole lot else to do besides talk to each other, and, for all his egotism, Drake didn't actually have much to say about himself. As a result, Launchpad steered most of their conversations. Apparently, he'd worked for Scrooge McDuck up until about a year ago, after which he'd moved to St. Canard. He came from a family of pilots, and he had a sister and a wallet full of photos. Many of those photos included Mr. McDuck and nephews, and Launchpad loved to recount the multitude of adventures they'd been on.

Sometimes Drake only half-listened, too tired and doped on morphine to pay full attention, but he found that he actually enjoyed the steady background noise of Launchpad's voice. Last week, it would have driven him up the wall, would have had him ready to start tearing his feathers out. He hated talking to people, especially about inane things like _family_ and whatnot.

Now, listening to Launchpad (even if not all the words quite reached him) was somehow comforting, like being wrapped in a soft blanket.

Among blank walls and beeping monitors, Drake Mallard wasn't alone.

* * *

Every day, Launchpad would ask Drake about contacting Gosalyn. Every day, Drake would say no.

The day before Drake was scheduled to be released from the hospital, Launchpad finally hit his limit. " _Why_?" he asked, smacking his hand of cards down on the tray table and disrupting the spread of their gin rummy game.

"Hey!" Drake protested. He'd almost been winning that round.

"I'm serious, D.W.," Launchpad insisted. "At this point, you're just being cruel."

Drake went quiet. Just when it seemed like he wasn't going to reply at all, he said, "I'm thinking about adopting her."

After a moment of shocked silence, Launchpad's face split into a huge grin. "That's a great idea!" he exclaimed.

"Is it?" Drake murmured.

Launchpad gave him a puzzled look. "Why wouldn't it be?"

Drake fiddled with his cards. "Well, I'm hardly qualified to be a parent, am I? I can barely take care of _myself_ some days, and vigilantism doesn't exactly pay. What if I can't support her? What if I'm a lousy guardian? I don't know the first thing about being a father. She might not even _want_ me to-"

"No offense, D.W.," Launchpad interrupted, "but _that's_ just stupid."

Drake gaped at him.

"I mean, some of those are real concerns," Launchpad said. "But one thing's for sure: that kid thinks the world of you. _Anywhere_ will be better than where she is now, so long as she's with you."

A lump formed in Drake's throat, and he tried to swallow it.

"She's already lost three people," Launchpad added. "Do you really think she can afford to lose another?"

Launchpad may as well have just punched Drake in the gut. "No," he croaked. "I don't."

His moment of sudden severity evaporated, and Launchpad beamed. "Great!" he said. "It's settled, then. Once you get out tomorrow, we're going straight to the orphanage!"

Something warm nestled in Drake's chest, like the first time Gosalyn had hugged him. "Yeah," he said. "Sounds good."

Launchpad shuffled the scattered cards back into one stack. "Another round?" he asked.

Drake handed over his cards. "You're on."

They played for the rest of the afternoon without any further substantial conversation. Drake changed up what game a couple of times, but he still lost every one of them. For a lunkhead, Launchpad was surprisingly canny when it came to cards. Everyone had to have their hidden talents, Drake supposed.

When it was time for him to leave, Launchpad paused in the doorway. "You're making the right choice," he said. "I think you need her just as much as she needs you."

Drake smiled. "See you tomorrow, L.P.," he said.

"See ya!" Launchpad replied, and, with one last wave, disappeared into the hallway.

As soon as he was gone, a nurse came in. Drake reached for a cup of water and began to drink. He hadn't expected Launchpad to be so insightful, but it seemed the pilot was full of surprises. Adopting Gosalyn wasn't the only right choice he was making, Drake realized.

"Your boyfriend's very dedicated," the nurse said with a knowing smile, breaking Drake out of his reverie. "Cute, too. I'd say he's a keeper."

Drake choked.

* * *

He stood on the front steps of the orphanage, working up the courage to open the door. For a moment, he regretted asking Launchpad to wait in the car, missing the pilot's comforting presence – but he wanted to do this on his own. If he couldn't even manage the adoption process, how could he manage being a dad?

Steeling his resolve, he twisted the doorknob and… Well, he wanted to say he strode boldly inside, but it was more of an awkward hobble with which he entered the orphanage.

Drake gave the aging woman behind the front desk his best smile. "Hello," he said. "My name's Drake Mallard. I'm here about Gosalyn Waddlemeyer."

And when Gosalyn tackled him, it was worth the extra bruising just to have her in his arms again.

* * *

Much later, when he finally found a real house and Gosalyn was officially his daughter, he got to tuck her into a brand-new bed and sing her a familiar lullaby. He watched her fall asleep, and wondered if he would ever tire of that.

He doubted it.

Gosalyn sighed in her sleep and burrowed a little deeper into the sheets, and his insides twisted. He was so lucky. He was the luckiest duck in the whole world, and he might not have done anything to deserve something this good, but he was damned if he was going to let it go.

Unbidden, he remembered Gosalyn being dropped from the sky and suddenly felt like he was the one in free fall. _Love feels an awful lot like heart-stopping terror_ , he thought.

But maybe some fears were worth having.


End file.
